


If They Were Going To Hell

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AtS season 5, AU after Destiny, set during The Girl in Question<br/>"<i>This</i> was not why Angel had come to Rome."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If They Were Going To Hell

Angel raised his hand, and dropped it again without knocking. This was a terrible idea. What had he been thinking? That they’d welcome him with open arms? That they’d understand why he had done any of it – why he was going to do worse before he was done? He knew better than that. 

He looked back into the hallway, catching just a glimpse of a couple walking by, their words very fast. His Italian was rusty, and he distracted himself by trying to puzzle out what they had said. Something about a game, maybe. Wasn’t everything a game, in the end?

He should have gone, already. There wasn’t much time left. A demon clan in LA was waiting for its leader’s head, and he had volunteered to retrieve it. The CEO of Wolfram & Hart going on a fetching errand. That didn’t mesh too well with the careful planning he had been working on lately, but it was precisely because of his plans that he had decided to come. Some things were better said in person – goodbyes, especially.

With a heavy sigh, he turned to the door again. This time, he knocked. Part of him hoped that it would remain closed. Maybe they weren’t there. They undoubtedly had better things to do than stay in. Vampires needed slaying in Rome like they did in California. Demons, too. The new Slayers needed supervision, he supposed. There had to be a hundred things…

The lock whined, metal on metal. The door opened.

*

Spike was toweling his hair dry after a quick shower when a soft knock drew him out of the bathroom. He went to open the door, barefoot and bare-chested, still running the white, fluffy towel over his head. One of the girls, maybe, looking for a sparring or patrolling partner. Or even Andrew – he seemed to be around more often when Buffy was out of town.

He never expected to find Angel standing on the threshold, looking like he wished he had been anywhere else on earth – or even in hell.

Spike stared at him, absently stopping to dry his hair and leaving the towel to rest across his shoulder. His first thought was that something must have happened in LA – something worse than what had happened to sweet little Fred. The details they had received had been sketchy, but one thing seemed certain: Fred was gone. 

“Did the castle finally fall on your empty head?”

Angel blinked, then frowned. “What?”

“Wolfram & Hart,” Spike said with a small snort. “Did they realize you weren’t CEO material? Kicked you out on your sorry ass and now you’ve come to beg for scraps?”

The frown turned into full out glowering. “Just because you went back to her _crawling_ —”

Spike’s hand tightened into a fist and he lashed out, catching Angel in the gut and knocking the wind out of him. Angel tried to strike back at once, only to be stopped by the barrier between them. Spike glared at him.

*

“Crawling?” Spike spat. “You practically shoved me into that plane!”

Angel surreptitiously pressed a hand to his stomach for an instant; Spike had always fought like a _girl_. “Like you wouldn’t have gone anyway. I just saved myself the aggravation of hearing you taunt me before you did.”

Spike’s expression only darkened. He looked ready to shift to game face. “You know _nothing_!”

“And neither do you.” Angel crossed his arms and tried to calm down. He hadn’t come there to fight. “I’m in Rome on a business trip. I just thought I’d drop by and say hi.”

The anger drained from Spike’s face little by little until all that was left was a deep resignation. He grabbed the edge of the door, and Angel was sure he was about to slam it in his face. Instead, he pulled it open a little more widely and said formally, “Come in, Angel.”

Taken aback, Angel needed a couple of seconds to react before he finally entered. He was about to ask why Spike’s mood had changed so drastically, but already Spike was asking, “How bad is it and how much help do you need to stop it?”

Frowning again, Angel watched him walk into the living room and drop onto the couch. He followed but remained standing, hands in his pockets.

“Stop what?”

Spike shook his head. “No way you came all this way to say hi. You’ve got an apocalypse on your hands or something just as bad, don’t you?”

*

Angel didn’t reply. His expression revealed nothing. After a moment he looked away, his eyes wandering over the small apartment. Spike’s thumb started tapping a rapid staccato on his thigh. It had to be even worse than what he thought.

“Where is she?” Angel asked suddenly, his voice low and tense. He still wasn’t looking at Spike.

“Not here.” Spike jumped back to his feet and stood in front of him, forcing Angel to meet his gaze. “How much did you fuck up that you need _her_ help that badly?”

Angel’s eyes gleamed gold. “I didn’t,” he said darkly. “And I don’t. As I said, I just came to say—”

Spike leaned in until they were nose to nose. “Try that one on someone who doesn’t know you like I do,” he hissed.

It was a fight. Neither of them moved, neither said another word – neither looked away, not for long seconds – but it was a fight just the same. Spike won this one like he had won their fight for the cup of eternal stupidity. The taste on his tongue was just as unexpectedly bitter.

Angel took a step back and looked away again. “So, how’s life as a couple working for you two anyway?”

It _was_ worse, Spike realized suddenly. Angel hadn’t dropped by to say hi, nor had he come to ask for help. Unless Spike was completely off his mark – and he really didn’t think he was this time – he had come to say goodbye.

*

A long moment passed before Spike replied, and when he did it was without the cockiness Angel had expected. Without taunts, or bragging. It was just a single, quiet word. “Fine.”

Despite his better judgment, Angel looked back at Spike, searching for the usual clues that he was lying. He found nothing. “Fine?” he repeated with a forced snicker. “Is that all?”

Spike didn’t even blink. “If you want to know how many times we’ve fucked since I came back, I can give you numbers. Or how many times we made love. How many times she said she loves me. How many times she sucked—”

Angel grimaced and raised a hand. “All right. You two are happy. I’m glad.”

He said the words automatically, but was startled to realize he meant them. He _was_ glad that they were happy. He would have been even more glad if they had been happy with other people rather than each other, but—

“You really do mean that,” Spike murmured, sounding dumbstruck

Angel dared a look at him and found that he looked just as confused as he sounded. “Why wouldn’t I?” he muttered, annoyed though he couldn’t have explained why. “If you make her happy then—”

“And I’m supposed to believe _that_ too?” Spike snorted. “I know you think I’m an idiot, but come on. Don’t tell me you weren’t pissed as hell when she sent you away and gave me that damn bauble.”

Angel shrugged. “I guess I’ve moved on.”

*

If he hadn’t had such a bad feeling about all of it, Spike would have laughed aloud. As things were, he couldn’t even manage a chuckle. “ _You_ have moved on? Like hell you have. You wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have come to tell her goodbye.”

It was the flat look in Angel’s eyes that confirmed Spike’s suspicions.

“Fuck!” Glaring, he shook a finger at Angel. “I knew it! You lying bastard! Don’t tell me you don’t have a hell of a fight coming your way, now!”

He thought Angel would deny it again when he shook his head, but instead Angel said, sounding more tired than Spike had ever heard him, “What if I do? It wouldn’t change anything if I told you about it.”

Spike could feel a muscle clench and unclench in his cheek. His fists closed. “So you’re not even going to _try_ and survive it, whatever it is?”

Angel rolled his eyes at him. “Of course I’m going to try, you idiot. I just don’t think—”

“We could help,” Spike blurted out. 

Angel shook his head again and sighed. “It’s my mess. I’m sure Buffy has enough on her plate—”

“ _I_ can help.”

The surprise Spike felt at hearing his own words was reflected right back at him in Angel’s widening eyes.

“Why would you even want to?” Angel asked. “You got the girl. Why would you risk your life now?”

Spike gritted his teeth. “If you’ve got to ask, _you_ ’re the idiot.”

*

_This_ was not why Angel had come to Rome.

He had come for a demon head.

He had come to check on Buffy; check that she was as happy as his informant said she – _they_ were.

He had come to get a last look at his family – because that was what they were, almost as much as the boy who shouldn’t have remembered him, as much as the friends he had lost, as much as the other friends who were suspecting he had sold all their souls.

He had come to remind himself why he fought; why losing this fight would not be as bad as never fighting it at all.

But he had not come for _this_.

He had not come to ask for help, knowing better than to believe it would be granted to him; Andrew had made it clear what they thought of his dealings with Wolfram & Hart.

He had not come to find Spike genuinely angry at the idea of his death; God knew they had tried to kill each other often enough.

He had not come to try to pull Spike away from Buffy; he truly was happy for them – jealous, too, there was no point in denying it, but deep down happy.

And he certainly had not come to look in Spike’s gleaming eyes, sparkles of gold igniting the blue, and remember that, once, before Buffy and their souls and the twentieth century and Romania, they had been more than rivals and adversaries.

*

Something changed in the way Angel looked at him, the shift so minuscule that Spike wasn’t even sure what it was. Before he could try to figure it out, Angel’s eyes snapped shut.

“I should go.”

Spike’s anger leapt tenfold. “Coward,” he growled. “Always the same, with you. With a soul or without, all you do is hurt the people who give a damn about you, and you don’t even care that—”

When Angel’s eyes opened again, they were pure gold. The rest of his face shifted with them, sliding into the features that were his true visage. Spike instinctively raised his fists. He deflected Angel’s hands when they first rose toward him. They were back at once, one clutching his forearm, the other at the back of his neck, both pulling him forward even as Spike tried to escape the punishing grip.

And then he stopped trying to escape, closed his eyes, and let Angel kiss him.

And _then_ he did more than let him – he kissed back, his hands fisted in Angel’s shirt and drawing closer if that was possible, his tongue sliding against Angel’s, rediscovering it like a beloved treat given up for Lent: slowly at first to make it last, and soon without restraint because there was no reason to deprive himself anymore, now, was there?

He jerked back, his hands letting go of Angel as though burned. Angel’s grip on him, on the other hand, did not relent.

“Fuck,” Spike breathed, blinking wildly. “Buffy.”

*

The name splattered over Angel like a bucket of icy water, drenching him down to his soul and shocking him out of game face. He released Spike and glanced behind him, expecting to find a pissed off, hurt, _murderous_ Slayer. But the door was still closed. They were still alone. He looked back at Spike, who shrugged almost apologetically.

“Not here,” he said, his voice raw. “Just… _Buffy_.”

Angel nodded, his throat too tight for words. He understood quite well.

They stood there for a little while, not looking at each other, only inches separating them – inches, and the shadow of a woman neither wanted to betray.

“I should go,” Angel said again, and this time Spike didn’t protest.

Heavy steps took Angel back to the door. He opened it before looking back at Spike. He tried to smile. “Thanks for offering. No need to tell her I was there.”

Spike didn’t give any sign he had heard him. Swallowing a sigh, Angel turned again to the door. And again found that he wasn’t quite finished. Spike still hadn’t moved an inch when he turned toward him again. “For what it’s worth,” he said very quietly, “I _do_ care. Always did.”

He left without waiting for an answer. The latch clicked shut behind him and he hurried down the hallway, almost afraid to hear it click again. Afraid that Spike would call him back. Afraid that he wouldn’t.

_They are happy_ , he repeated to himself as he fled the building.

*

As soon as the door shut on Angel, Spike started shaking. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether he was going to start laughing or crying. Of all the insane things that had happened to him in the past few years, _this_ was certainly the most unlikely of all.

He managed to get a grip on himself by going to the bedroom and hunting down the pack of cigarettes wedged behind the bottom drawer of his dresser. His fingers were still shaking but on his third try he lit a cigarette with the matches they kept by the candles. As he took his first drag he walked to the window and opened it, leaning against the sill so that the smoke would drift out rather than stay in. What Buffy didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

He shut his eyes tight at the thought.

“Fuck.”

What in hell had possessed Angel? 

What in hell had possessed _him_? 

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to Angel – Angelus – whatever he called himself this decade – fucking with his head. That had been an all too familiar game a century earlier, and the game had only been replayed, over and over, whenever they had met after that. In China, when Angel had pretended to be proud. In the middle of the Atlantic, when he had pretended they were on the same side. In Sunnydale, when he had pretended to offer him the idiot boy’s neck. 

But why had _this_ felt like Angel wasn’t pretending anymore?

*

As he hunted down that head across the Italian capital, Angel’s mind was everywhere – but not on what he was doing.

He remembered Rome a little over a century earlier. He remembered how mad he and Spike had been to find themselves and their women mistreated by the Immortal. He remembered, also, how they had licked their wounds – literally.

He remembered Los Angeles when he had first realized that Spike was corporeal again. He remembered that his first thought had been that he needed to get Spike far away and fast – before he started losing his soul too.

He remembered London and the first time he had taken William to his bed. He remembered how sweetly he had fought, at first, and then how sweetly he had yielded. How sweetly he had begged for more.

He remembered Sunnydale, and there had been nothing sweet about it – with the soul, or without.

He remembered, also, that Dru had never minded sharing. He was pretty sure that Buffy would not have been so forgiving.

It was a good thing that he had left, he told himself, over and over. Whatever had happened between them, it was the past. And it hadn’t been _him_ anyway, it had been Angelus. Being reminded of his own mortality had confused him, that was all. And Spike…

What had come over Spike, for him to say those things, or to kiss back Angel as though—

As though he remembered too. As though there had been no Buffy.

*

The phone rang three times before Buffy picked up.

“You owe me ice cream!” she said at once, laughing. “You called first!”

Spike leaned back against the pillow and smiled – a thin, weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Hello, luv. How is Munich?”

“Bah. My German is worse than my Italian. I’m really thinking of moving to London. At least they speak proper English there.”

Spike’s smile widened just a little. “They do, but I doubt they’d think _you_ do.”

She snorted. “Go ahead. Rub it in. You Europeans, you’re all snobs. I should have stayed in America.”

He lost his smile. “You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I don’t. So what are you up to? Andrew recruited you for patrol?”

There was just the sliver of a laugh in her words. She thought Andrew’s crush on him was amusing. She had even called it ‘cute’, once.

“Didn’t see him,” he said blankly. “But I was thinking of going out, get some fresh air. A bit of exercise if I find something interesting to play with.”

“Don’t go near the Coliseum if you do. The girls were talking about canvassing the area and driving out everything that has fangs. They wouldn’t be too happy with you if you ruined their fun.”

Spike nodded absently. “I’ll try to remember that.”

There was a short pause, and then she asked, sounding worried: “Spike? Is everything all right? You sound… far.”

“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to say I love you.”

“Love you too.”

*

It was a little before three in the morning that Angel gave up.

He didn’t care that his Italian counterpart claimed this was the way things were done on this side of the ocean. He didn’t care that someone was toying with him. He didn’t even care anymore that not finding this damn, ridiculous head would mean a succession war in Los Angeles. They would deal with it if it came to that – and if that meant eliminating every last demon from that clan, he would be on the front line and doing the honors himself. 

Soon after deciding to go home, he came across Spike in a deserted alley. He couldn’t have said if it was a coincidence or not. He had no doubt that Spike could have found him if he wanted to. The question was – did he want to? And why would he anyway?

“So you really were here on business,” he said, grinning and gesturing at Angel’s ruined clothing.

Angel grunted. “You thought I lied?”

The grin vanished in the blink of an eye. “You lied about the rest.”

Angel’s eyes sharpened at the accusation. “I did not say a word that wasn’t true.”

“You came to say hi?” Spike said, an eyebrow rising challengingly.

Angel didn’t back down. “Hi, bye, it’s the same word in Italian, isn’t it? And speaking of, I have a plane to catch. Ciao.”

He started to move past Spike, but a hand closing on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

*

It was a little after three in the morning that Spike gave in.

He hadn’t been aware he was following Angel’s trail – not fully aware, anyway – but when he came face to face with him, there was no denying it. 

There was no denying either that this was _wrong_. Not wrong in the sense that killing a human was wrong. The soul didn’t have a thing to do with it. But his heart… oh, his heart was already aching from it. So long he had loved Buffy. So long he had tried to reinvent himself into a man she would be able to love. And now that he had become that man, now that she had admitted she had loved him long before the soul, now that the only standing disagreement between them was whether to sleep with the windows open or closed… now he was risking everything for a kiss he hadn’t even realized he wanted until he had received it.

But there was no denying either that he had wanted it. That he still wanted more. His heart ached at the thought of betraying Buffy, yes, but it had ached for a very long time already, betrayed by the man he had called his Sire.

He closed a still trembling hand on Angel’s arm, and when their eyes met, Spike stopped shaking at last. There would be time for regrets, apologies and amends, if it ever came to that. But there might not be another time for this.

*

For a few seconds, Spike did nothing more than hold on to Angel’s arm and gaze. Angel didn’t dare move or say a word. Whatever he did or said, it would be the wrong answer. However things went from here, it was up to Spike. Angel had more than enough weighing on his conscience already. He didn’t want to add to it – or so he told himself.

But the guilt was there, like silver bells laughing in the distance, from the instant Spike roughly pushed him back against the closest wall. They laughed still when their bodies pressed together, mouths, chests and cocks, when Spike’s tongue pushed into his mouth and teased the flesh behind which his fang hid. The right fang. It had always been the right one. 

Angel pushed the laughing bells out of his mind and vamped out, piercing right through Spike’s tongue. They moaned together, he in pleasure at the blissful taste of the familiar blood filling his mouth again, Spike in the just as familiar pain of Angel’s fangs sinking into him. He sucked on Spike’s tongue, gently now, coaxing a little more blood from the already closing wound. When he let go, Spike broke the kiss – but he didn’t pull back, and continued to press Angel into the wall. He was panting against Angel’s lips, his eyes wild and dazed.

The bells laughed again. Too dazed to realize what he was doing?

“Buffy?” Angel murmured, hating himself for it yet _needing_ to remind Spike.

*

“I love her,” Spike murmured back, each word burning his lips and tongue better than Holy water. “More than my life. More than blood itself.”

He could feel Angel starting to push him back. He resisted, keeping him right where he was. 

“But you,” he continued, the words even quieter now, “you gave me this life. You are my blood.”

He couldn’t say a word more. He had only said too much already. The two of them had never been good with words. Spike’s were always too dull, Angel’s always too sharp. One more way in which they were like night and day. One more way in which they completed each other.

He laid his mouth on Angel’s again, and this time the urgency had passed. This time it was like it had been, on a few rare mornings, when too much drinking, killing and fucking had left them both satiated and content. This time it was as sweet as wine flowing on their tongues, as intoxicating. Spike’s hands dropped from where they held Angel in place and found the fastenings of his pants. He unbuttoned, unzipped, and when he carefully guided his hard cock out, Angel hissed into his mouth. Spike smiled.

“How long as it been?” he asked, pressing the words like caresses against Angel’s jaw.

Angel only grunted.

“And how long for this?” he asked again, and, dropping to his knees in front of Angel, he took his cock into his mouth without waiting for an answer.

*

The silver bells were done laughing. They were now ringing in Angel’s ear as loudly as though he had been kneeling in church for Sunday mass. But he wasn’t the one kneeling. His sins were beyond praying for redemption. Words were not enough anymore, if they had ever been. Actions were what mattered. Actions gave the measure of a man’s worth.

What did it say about Angel’s worth that he had let Spike kneel in front of him, that his hands, at the back of Spike’s head, were urging him to take his cock a little deeper still every time his hips accidentally jerked forward?

What did it say about Angel’s worth that he knew Spike loved someone else, that he loved her too, that they were both betraying her? They couldn’t even claim they didn’t know how much it would hurt her; they had both been betrayed by those they loved before.

What did it say about Angel’s worth that, even now that Spike had her love, even now that he was happy, he still was ready to risk it for this? For Angel?

The bells rang louder with each passing second, and still Angel could hear Spike’s quiet little hums of pleasure and his own panting breaths. He clenched his eyes shut and stopped trying to hold still, to hold back. Spike’s humming only increased as he swallowed around him, swallowed his guilt right along with his come, and Angel sobbed his name as pleasure tore through him.

*

Spike’s mouth tingled, both bitter and sweet, when he pressed it against Angel’s and drew the tip of his tongue along the seam of his lips. They parted and he slid inside Angel’s mouth, offering him a taste of himself.

Buffy never liked it very much when he kissed her after going down on her, but Angel let out a quiet little moan and started sucking on Spike’s tongue, very much like he had when drawing more blood from him. Spike moaned right along with him, his cock twitching painfully in the confines of his pants.

He rested his palm against Angel’s spent cock and grinned against his mouth as he felt it try to respond to his touch. It wouldn’t be long before he was ready for the next round. More remorse and regrets come morning, but Spike had always drunk, loved and fucked the same way: too much.

Angel’s hand rested on his chest, right above his heart, and Spike shivered at the small contact. He shivered again, for an entirely different reason, when Angel gently but firmly pushed him away as far as his arm would reach. Spike’s hands dropped to his sides, tightening into fists the same way his lips tightened into a thin, angry line.

Angel blinked and shook his head weakly. “No, that’s not…” He swallowed and took a step forward. Turned around to face the wall. Leaned both hands against it and bowed his head. He was shaking, Spike realized. They both were.

*

With William or Spike, Angelus had done many things, but this would be Angel’s. This memory and guilt would be his alone, free of his alter ego’s taint. If he had to burn in the hell of Buffy’s hate, at least he would have no one to blame but himself.

He bowed his head as a penitent, and waited for Spike’s absolution.

He didn’t wait long.

Spike’s hands came first, pushing Angel’s jacket and shirt up, his pants down, his hips a little further back. His fingers next, parting Angel’s cheeks, exposing him as he had never been before. His tongue after that, nudging, pressing, and Angel’s guilt wasn’t like silver bells anymore. It was a steel gong, the bang so deep that it rattled him down to the bones.

As loud as it was, though, it wasn’t hard to ignore the guilt, not when Spike’s tongue was sliding just a little deeper inside him, wetly thrusting in and out. It was exquisite. Exquisitely wrong. And nowhere near enough.

“Now,” he demanded, and was surprised to hear himself beg. “Now, Spike.”

He bit back a first moan at the loss of that wicked, delightful tongue – then a second one when, not even a second later, the slick head of Spike’s cock nudged at his opening.

When he started pushing in, Angel didn’t try to hold back his moans anymore. He let them rise like as many _Hail Mary_ s, but behind his eyelids the virgin had always been blonde and hazel-eyed.

*

Spike had told himself he would do what he must and deal with the consequences afterwards, but that plan, like so many others, did not last to completion. It came undone when he took that first painfully slow thrust – and Spike nearly came undone right alone with it.

His face pressed against Angel’s back, his fingers bruising his hips, he stopped when he was fully in. It wasn’t a matter of whether it was worth it. Of course it was. It would still have been worth it if they had stopped after that first bloody kiss.

Rather, it was a matter of how he would ever be able to tell Buffy again he loved no one but her. He had always lied, he now realized, but up to that instant he hadn’t known it was a lie. He didn’t feel any less guilty for it, though.

It was Angel pushing back against him that brought him back to the present. He brushed a fleeting kiss to the back of Angel’s neck and slowly pulled out almost all the way. He thrust back in at Angel’s choked whimper. He had learned this dance on his hands and knees in front of this same man, and he intended to prove he had learned it well.

Before long, he was losing himself in the rhythm of their flesh slapping together, of their hands pulling on Angel’s cock together, of their moans filling the small street together.

And when they came, it was together.

*

With unsteady fingers, Angel tucked himself in and buttoned his pants. Then he turned to Spike, leaning against the wall next to him, and did the same thing for him, his touch gentler still. Spike blinked a thank you at him, and Angel answered with a thin smile.

He raised a hand to Spike’s face, realizing just before he touched him that his fingers were sticky with semen. Spike’s hand came up to take hold of his, and guided him to rest against his cheek. Angel pinched his lips tight, unsure whether it was a moan or a sigh he was silencing. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Spike’s, silently asking for his forgiveness. Spike gave him a little eye roll. His hand, still on top of Angel’s, moved until Angel’s fingers were against his lips. He kissed them, then flicked his tongue at them. This time, Angel allowed the quiet moan to rise.

They remained like this a little longer, both of them aware that their time was up – it had been up before they even started. At last, Angel pulled away. After a small squeeze to his hand, Spike let him go. Burying his hands in his pockets, Angel walked away, each step as painful as though he had walked on broken glass – just as necessary. He stopped at the end of the street, but managed not to look back. A small punishment, far less than he deserved – far less than he would soon be granted.

*

For two weeks, Spike apologized with every smile, every kiss, every touch, every slide of his cock against Buffy’s soft, warm flesh.

He didn’t tell her. He never would. He loved her too much to hurt her like this. He loved her too much to watch her eyes fill with hate again. He loved her too much to lose her.

Besides, he already had.

Maybe she would have forgiven him. Maybe, if he had found the words, she would have understood. Maybe. Spike liked ‘maybe’ better than he liked ‘not’.

She never suspected anything. How could she have? He had earned her trust with his very life, hadn’t he? What kind of a fool would he be to throw it all away?

Even when he told her he needed to go to Los Angeles, her questions were innocent. She offered to come along. He smiled and kissed her again – but he climbed in that jet alone.

He arrived just in time to see the armies of hell pour into the streets of Los Angeles like molten lava spewed from a raging volcano. 

A smart man would have turned away and run.

Spike had never been accused of being smart.

He didn’t have a weapon. He killed a demon, and stole his. Then he started slashing, left and right, but always pushing forward. He’d get to the front of the battle, eventually, and he knew whom he would find there.

If they were going to hell, they were going there together.


End file.
